Swords and Sorcery
by Dragonfly-Moonlight
Summary: Please read the warnings inside. Summary: It was to be a reunion, a chance for everyone to see each other and catch up . . . only things never go according to plan.


Disclaimer: I do not own Star Ocean: Till the End of Time. It belongs to Tri-Ace and Square Enix, and I do not profit financially from writing this story.  
Warnings: Mpreg! First and foremost, that is everyone's warning. If it's a squick for you, please head back out. However, if you feel the need to flame me for this, go right ahead. I need the flames for roasting marshmallows and keeping the house warm this upcoming winter. XD Other warnings: sexual situations, male/male relationships, magic, science-fiction and fantasy settings, language, war and violence.  
Rating: M  
Pairings: Fayt Leingod x Luther Lansfeld, Fayt Leingod x OC, Albel Nox x Cliff Fittir  
Author's Note: This could very well turn into a _Till the End of Time_ and _The Last Hope_ crossover story of sorts. It just depends on how badly I wish to mess with the heads of the characters. XD

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_Prologue_

Chains of black iron bound him by both his wrists and his ankles, the edges chaffing and digging into his flesh, drawing blood every time he tried to adjust them for the sake of comfort. A dark brown robe of heavy and itchy wool covered his body, a hood pulled over his head and obscuring his vision. With the exception of the robe, he wore no other clothing. Even his feet were bare.

Where he'd landed, Fayt possessed no idea. He only recalled the faintest of memories from before the crash. He knew he had entered an escape pod, but he didn't remember the reasons for why he'd done such a thing. He recalled seeing the darkness of space and the shimmering lights of distant stars. Flashing lights then surrounded him, knocking the escape pod around the way a cat knocked around an acorn or toy ball, and he'd been jostled about violently. The throbbing, dull pain above his right eye probably had something to do with the gaps in his memory. Given the pain and the fuzzy-headedness it brought him, the young man believed he had hit his head at the moment of impact and fell unconscious. For how long, he would never know. He only knew that, upon regaining consciousness, he found himself surrounded by people, and they had stripped him of everything, including his sword and his translator, the latter laying in pieces at his side. The moment he awakened, they garbed him in the robe and shackled him like the prisoner he obviously knew that he was.

At least, he _thought_ they were people, the ones treating him like a captive. It was hard to say since he saw no distinguishable features. Those surrounding him were robed entirely in black, the cowls pulled over their faces, the fabric flitting across the ground, and their hands gloved. They were also a foot or so taller than he. His captors had been dressed similarly, the one distinction being the spears aimed at his throat, their covered hands never wavering. Of the small group walking, only his hands remained bare, and he now saw chains attached to the manacles around his ankles and wrists. There were four, which meant there were at least four guarding him and guiding him to whatever destination they had in mind.

Fayt blinked and tried to shake his head clear of his current muddled feeling, well aware of the sticky sensation of dried blood around his eye and down the right side of his face. The ground underneath his feet chilled him, burned him with its icy touch yet he saw no snow within his limited range of vision. Rocks dug into his feet, cutting them and causing them to bleed. Fayt nearly fell at first, but his captors had not allowed such a thing to happen. The chains tugged at him, keeping him upright, if somewhat unbalanced, and someone pressed the tip of a spear into his back. Maybe there were more than four surrounding him, but somehow Fayt doubted there were more than just the ones leading him along. For one, to him, the air felt thick and heavy. Currents flowed around him, currents that were of air and not of air at the same time. A small flight of fancy caught him imagining he saw those flows in brilliant golds and pinks, streams of faint yet shimmering light, but he felt it to be impossible. As soon as he caught himself thinking that way, Fayt banished the idea entirely. His head ached, and the dull throb continued in its intensity. That would be more than sufficient to allow his mind to wander where it willed, refusing him the ability to focus and formulate a plan of escape. Still, the thought wanted to persist, and he could not deny those currents of air yet not air were heavy against his body. The very essence of the powers, which were starting to feel like the flows of symbology to him, seeped into his flesh and caused his tongue to swell.

The other reason why he believed there were only four surrounding him were the rhythmic sounds of their feet as they walked. His captors wore heavy-soled boots or shoes while his feet remained bare, and they each stepped in a cadence that, if there were more of these strange people, they followed out of Fayt's hearing. In his mind, more than four marching along with him would sound like an army marching towards the battlefield.

'Maybe they are,' he mused. Memories of broken bodies, the screams of dragons, and the moans of critically wounded or dying soldiers entered, unbidden, into his mind. Mingled in were the blaring alarm klaxons, the smell of blood on dirt, and the footfalls of men and women running along metal corridors, rushing to get innocent people to safety. He'd been on vacation with his parents that time . . . he remembered the warmth of the sand slipping into his sandals as he wandered onto the private beach . . . Fayt had been on vacation this time as well, on his way to visit friends he met on his previous journeys. A strong sense of anger and resentment towards his previous experiences and his current predicament washed over him, like a wave of water coming to shore. Bitterness filled him. 'It would just be my luck. The first time I come out of hiding, and this happens.'

Perhaps it was because he couldn't see beyond the cowl covering his head. Perhaps it was because he was lost in thoughts and memories, or perhaps it was because his head ached from when he crashed on to an unfamiliar planet. It may have been a combination of all three, but Fayt wouldn't have time to think upon what happened next. A jagged-edged rock bit into his foot, and it bit deep, not only slicing the already bruised and sensitized flesh, but also gouging into muscle. The rock even lodged itself a little into his foot, increasing the intensity of the pain. Unable to help himself, Fayt cried out in shock and pain, and he stumbled towards the ground.

His captors, this time, didn't prevent his fall or ease it in the least. Fayt felt the air rushing out of his lungs the second his body hit cold, hard dirt, and he lay still, gasping for air. Pain blossomed once more in his head, and he let out a weak moan. Spots of black, white, red, and blue danced in his vision, and he teetered on the brink of losing consciousness for a second time. All coherent thought fled him in those moments, too, leaving him reeling from lack of some rather basic needs, such as food, water, and rest.

For how long he lay on the ground, panting for air and moaning from pain, Fayt didn't even want to guess. He simply wanted to curl up and close his eyes and hope everything he endured upon his initial waking to be nothing more than a bad dream. It wouldn't happen, his hopes for his immediate future, but the knowledge didn't stop Fayt from wishing for it.

As he lay on the ground, Fayt soon became aware of how his breathing eased and the pain in his body lessened. The recent offending rock to bite into him no longer resided in his foot, and he heard the rhythmic steps of one of his captors approaching him. Long, slender fingers pulled his cowl back and intertwined themselves in his hair, and Fayt blinked at the onslaught of light. By normal standards, the sun peering through a large thicket of trees would be dim, but, for the duration of his captivity, Fayt had received no indication of the time of day. He also received no chance to consider his surroundings any further. The same captor pulled on him roughly, and Fayt struggled to keep his hair from being pulled from his skull. He scrambled, as best as he possibly could, into a sitting position, but with his hands and feet bound as they were, it proved to be a difficult task at best. A strangled cry escaped him when his hip scraped against something sharp – possibly another jagged rock or stone; Fayt had long since lost count of them, and everything else he tripped and stumbled over – as his captor continued to drag him until his back came to a rest against something large, and smooth against the feel of the robe, and cool. Sweat started to cover his body from the top of his head to his toes, causing the robe to stick to him and the wound on his head to sting, and the material felt scratchier and distinctly more uncomfortable. A cup or a bowl of some kind pressed against his lips the moment his captor stopped dragging him, and the person offering the drink to him simply poured the liquid, which felt cool and like water against his parched throat, without waiting for him to begin drinking. At the same time he felt someone lifting his injured foot and remove the dirt still stuck there, with very little kindness or concern in the act if the rough grabbing and pulling were any indications. The same coloured spots from before resumed their little dance in his line of vision, mingling with the currents of the golds and pinks swirling like cosmic dust around him, and exhaustion startled to settle over him. With his hands and feet bound as they were coupled with his exhaustion and realization of his hunger and thirst, Fayt felt no strong desire to resist his captors or their rough treatment of him. He simply wanted to sit there and rest for as long as he possibly could and attempt to catch his breath.

At first, it seemed as if Fayt would receive his wish to stay for them to stay where they were and to rest. While he sat with his back propped against a cool stone, he kept his gaze on those keeping him prisoner. His initial assessment of his captors had been correct. There were only four of them. One held him by his hair, keeping a tight grip, while a second one tended to his injured foot then to the gash on his forehead. The third and fourth ones knelt to either side of him, one pouring fluids into him and the other presumably holding something for him to eat. As soon as he finished drinking, which was quickly enough – he couldn't recall when he'd last had something to drink – the bowl with the liquid disappeared, only to be replaced with some kind of mushy substance (the starchy yet slightly bland taste suggested potatoes) forcefully entering his mouth. Fayt couldn't keep up with how his captors were feeding him and giving him water.

When they were through with him, the ones tending to his injuries and feeding him took several steps away, as far as the chains attached to his shackles would allow them to go. With each step backwards, the spears Fayt recognized upon his awakening floated closer to him until they were mere inches away from him. The one still next to him relinquished his (were they male or female? Fayt couldn't tell because of their robes) grip on Fayt's hair, pulling the cowl back over his head and drawing it to his nose. Since they hadn't dragged him back to his feet, he surmised they were now taking a break for themselves before they continued to wherever it was they were heading. Fayt shifted a little, to ease the pain in his hip, and he allowed his eyes to close.

He barely felt the call of sleep coming to claim him when he found himself abruptly on his feet again and stumbling to the destination his captors intended to take him. Thus it became a routine for him; long marches for hours upon hours with breaks long enough for his captors to feed him and to tend to his wounds when they were severe enough to keep him from walking any further. Most of the time, they kept walking, handing him food, water, and some other kind of liquid to consume so they wouldn't have to stop nearly as often. He couldn't always see the sun so Fayt possessed no idea how long this journey had gone on for, but he knew there was a sun. It offered very little warmth, but Fayt knew it was there. Rain never fell from the skies during this quiet and frighteningly lonely march, which never explained why the ground felt icy cold beneath his bare feet. On occasion, a breeze stirred, sometimes cool, sometimes warm, and it rustled leaves and tree branches, tugged on his robe, but seldom brought relief to the stifling heat and scratchiness of his robe. He even heard the chittering and chirping of animals, birds, and insects. His captors never spoke a word, at least not where he could hear them, which increased his sense of vulnerability and loneliness, but Fayt figured it didn't matter, ultimately. They destroyed his communicator with his universal translator so, even if they tried to speak to him, he wouldn't understand a word spoken to him nor would they understand a word he said to them. The knowledge he couldn't communicate with his captors started to oppress Fayt, becoming tangible the longer they marched, and he couldn't help but feel as if they would be marching forever. The air around him continued to shimmer with the lights of gold and pink, helping him very little in his plight. An image of a cow being led to the slaughter entered itself in his mind on more than one occasion, and he wondered during those occasions if a cow felt the same growing trepidation that he did with each step he took.

One thing Fayt did notice was how the pain in his head from where he hit it eased gradually so that, by the time he heard the approach of more booted feet, and voices filling the air, the pain had become non-existent. The fuzziness and lightheadedness continued to persist, but Fayt couldn't be sure if they were due to the injury or due to exhaustion. Still, he refused to give in to the weariness trying to settle over him, and he desperately desired some clarity so he could form a plan of escape. Even though he couldn't trace his path back to his escape pod, he knew he could at least make the attempt. He could find a way, if given a chance, and he counseled himself to be patient. He did know how to survive in an alien wilderness. Whatever was taking place on this planet, he wanted no part of it, not if it meant the deaths of countless innocent people.

The voices grew louder with each step he and his captors took. The press of spears disappeared, and one of them removed the cowl from covering his face. Fayt squinted in the brightness of the sun, and he blinked until his eyes adjusted the light.

When he could see clearly, a cold feeling of dread settled in the pit of Fayt's stomach. Less than a dozen or so boys, no older than he and definitely human in appearance, were being led in a single file towards a large cart. Each boy, or young man, wore the same brown robe as he did, and they were bound together by a thick rope tied around their wrists. Yet, for being captive-bound, to Fayt's eyes, the young men didn't seem to mind the fact they were being herded towards some unknown destination. Many of them talked and laughed with each other as if they were friends, which to his surprise he understood what they were saying, as they walked towards the cart, and their captors, or guides or whatever they were doing with the amount of men in their possession, allowed them such pleasantries. They weren't exactly the best cared for, their robes hanging looser on them than what his did on his body, but they seemed pleased with the fate life had handed to them. Seeing them had Fayt wondering what they were wanted for and why they were bound with ropes while he was actually shackled with chains.

As they approached the carts, his captors halted, and Fayt glanced around their surroundings. There were more of the strange beings in the black robes yet only the ones guarding him were completely covered. Their cowls hung over their backs, revealing a humanoid species with elongated ears, which were bound tight to their heads with black strips of cloth. Fayt was reminded of the extinct race of Eldarians, an entire planet wiped from existence because its sun turned giant years in advance (or so Fayt had learned in his history courses – a part of him wondered what happened to the remaining Eldarians searching for another planet to live upon). Many of the Eldarian-like people were inspecting the boys before ushering them onto the cart waiting for them, and the expressions on their faces told Fayt a story of sorts. Whatever the reasons they wanted the young men for, they weren't pleased with what they were seeing. There was a quiet resignation, however, on their faces as they didn't turn away a single young man. He also noticed a few of the robed individuals approaching he and his captors. They also started to talk to his captors, their language graceful, lyrical, and . . . heavenly in nature. Fayt found he couldn't pay any more attention to the young men hopping onto the cart. He wanted to hear more of their language, to learn it, to feel what it tasted like rolling off of his tongue, and he did his best to pay attention to the sounds flowing from them as they spoke with each other. Each voice sounded masculine in nature but no less beautiful or magical. Fayt had at least one answer to one of his questions.

The ones who approached were gesturing towards him, and his captors finally broke their silence when they replied back. Fayt watched the exchange as he tried to listen so he could learn to interpret what they were saying. His clothing and his sword were handed over to the newcomers as well as the pieces of his communicator. Fayt almost mourned the loss of the device. Almost. It at least would have translated what they were saying about him, but it could have also detracted from the beauty of their language, in his mind. He continued to watch them and listen as they spoke amongst themselves. It didn't take him long to figure out why he wore shackles as opposed to the ropes binding the others. The fact he possessed a weapon made him a threat to his captors, and the newcomers nodded their heads in understanding. They then stopped speaking and glanced at him, their eyes bright and reflecting curiosity.

Something about their gazes unsettled Fayt. They were curious about him – that much he could discern and he was equally curious about them – but there was something else in their eyes, something indefinable and predatory in their gazes that left him feeling distinctly uncomfortable. The cold feeling of dread intensified as they gestured for him to be loaded onto the cart with the other young men. A rough shove was the only indication given to him to continue moving, and Fayt hesitated. He wanted to run, to flee back to his escape pod, and he backed away from the cart. His instincts were screaming at him that something about this was dangerous; he needed to flee as quickly as he could. They shoved him towards the cart yet again, and dirt filled his mouth and nose as he hit the ground. Blood trickled from his nose, and Fayt lifted his head to see an unkind and angry face staring down at him, with the butt end of a spear ready to knock him unconscious. There was loathing in the face staring down at him, and Fayt harbored no doubts that this person would not only knock him unconscious with the spear, but continue to beat him until he lay dead. He started to scramble away from his now potential attacker as the spear's end traveled towards him, struggling with his shackles the entire time and knowing they would hinder him in his escape.

The attack never came. Before the man or Eldarian, or whatever he was, could actually strike him, one of his fellows grabbed the spear and wrestled it away from him, tossing him like a leaf torn violently from a tree during a strong wind storm. Fayt watched as the one who "saved" him shouted at the would-be attacker, anger evident in his voice (Fayt had yet to see anyone with any feminine qualities), and he gestured to two other onlookers. In a matter of seconds, Fayt was back on his feet and a leather-skinned flask pressed to his lips. The coolness of the liquid teased his parched lips, and Fayt opened his mouth to drink. He didn't remember when they'd last stopped for anything, and his body was now making its protests known to him. His feet hummed a steady song of pain, his knees felt like jelly, and his mind shut down from exhaustion . . .

xxX-Swords-and-Sorcery-Xxx

When Fayt came to, the first thing he noticed was the lack of movement. He wasn't walking, and he wasn't sitting next to someone in some wooden cart, ready to be whisked away from the safety of the trees and his escape pod. His mind was still fuzzy from sleeping, and his unexpected journey felt more of a dream than an actual event. Still, he knew he hadn't been dreaming. The same lyrical language of his captors surrounded him, bathing him with a sense of excitement and celebratory nature, and it was more than a strong enough indication everything he'd endured had been real. Fayt twitched as a few things made themselves known to him.

The Eldarian-like men noticed his waking almost immediately, and they crowded around him, their voices indicating their joy. Fayt could only stare at them, uncertain of how to react to them, and it was then he noticed his nudity as well as theirs. Heat flooded his cheeks, and he squirmed, which they took as some sort of sign. Hands gently touched him on his shoulders and upper back, guiding him from his makeshift bed and into another room filled with steaming hot water, plush-looking towels, and a variety of bottles and jugs. There, they cleaned him, scrubbing away the grime, dried on blood, and sweat from his trek, and they used a soap that reminded Fayt of standing on a beach and inhaling the saltiness of the water. The heat of the water eased the remaining aches from his muscles but did nothing to alleviate his anxiety or the growing, gnawing hunger in his belly.

Once he was clean to their satisfaction, they were drying him off and placing a gold chain circlet upon his head with a gem of some kind resting in the center of his forehead. They then led Fayt into yet another room where the aromas of roasted meats and vegetables wafted up to greet them. As if to embarrass him further, Fayt's stomach rumbled loudly at the enticing scents, and the heat in his cheeks intensified. The men guiding him didn't seem to mind or even react. Instead, they guided him to a set of cushions and brought the food to him.

The morsels of food they presented to him were on the small size, able to be eaten in one bite. Since some of the meats they were giving to him to eat were quite juicy and tasty, Fayt didn't mind in the least since it meant they wouldn't drip onto him. He felt more like himself after his bath, though he still wasn't comfortable with his current surroundings or his nudity. The image of a cow being led to the slaughter no longer entered his mind, but he still felt like a sacrifice of some kind. Despite how ravenous he felt, Fayt deliberately took his time to eat the meats and breads, fruits and vegetables, and other goodies being presented to him. Some of the foodstuffs reminded him of hard cheeses like he'd consumed on Elicoor II as well as the wild berry cookies he and Albel had accidentally created before their confrontation with the Creator. There was also a beverage of some kind – it reminded Fayt of the fruity potion and the aqua potion at the same time; cool, refreshing, and revitalizing as he drank it – they offered to him. His skin tingled with each swallow, and Fayt felt his inhibitions melting away.

Finally, the other men were done allowing him to eat. Not that Fayt particularly cared. His stomach no longer growled at him, and he didn't want to become too comfortable. He couldn't be sure, but the possibility they'd just given him his last meal danced around in his thoughts. If that's what they'd done, Fayt didn't want to be too sluggish in his efforts to escape. The empty dishes and remaining food were cleared away, and the men were guiding Fayt to his feet yet again. This time, each man grabbed a candle, lit the wick, and waited while the person in the lead opened a door hidden behind a tapestry. Fayt blinked, surprised he hadn't taken notice of his surroundings sooner and cursed himself for the lack of observation. Not that it had mattered. While he could have fought his way out, they outnumbered him ten to one. They were also well fed and well rested, in complete knowledge of their surroundings whereas Fayt was not as fortunate. Idly, he wondered how long he'd been sleeping and what they'd given to him to cause him to be unconscious.

A cool breeze entered the room the moment the wall door completely opened, and the men started to leave. Two of them stood to either side of Fayt with one behind him and one in front, and, with a quiet sigh of resignation, he allowed them to lead him directly into the outside world.

Darkness still covered the land as Fayt and his "entourage" stepped outside and walked along a stone path. Unlike the icy cold ground from his earlier trek, the stones underneath his feet were smooth and warm, and Fayt said a silent prayer of thanks for such a small mercy. His feet still smarted from that trek, though the pain had lessened considerably. Around them, trees grew tall with large leaves and wide trunks. The sweet fragrances of flowers danced in what felt like an early morning breeze, and the only sounds were the songs of unseen insects. The men leading him had fallen silent yet there was no doubt their sense of excitement had remained with them. Fayt felt it as sure as he felt the breeze upon his bare skin, and he searched for any opportunity to escape whatever lay ahead of him.

The path itself wasn't too difficult to navigate. For the most part, it led in a straight line with only a single curve with a slight incline as well as a barrier of some kind dancing along the edges. The barrier wasn't an electrical one, but one formed of symbology, and Fayt noticed the ones leading him did their best to avoid touching the invisible wall. It didn't take them long to reach their destination, which happened to be a large, circular clearing. In perfect tandem with the trees forming the circle were about a dozen or so raised slabs of grey stone. They were polished and smooth in appearance. The slabs reminded Fayt of sacrificial altars, and his heart sank as he realized he was intended for one of those slabs. At the same time they were approaching, more groups of people entered the clearing, each taking a place by one of the slabs. Fayt recognized the young men he'd seen being loaded onto the cart, and he saw why his captors were initially disappointed in them. They were scrawnier than he was with no muscle development whatsoever. If he were to fight them, they wouldn't last long, even if they were able to cast spells. The young men, when they each came to a stop next to their respective slabs, glanced at Fayt, curiosity and disdain(?) in their eyes.

When each of the young men were standing next to the stone slabs, the leader of the Eldarian-like men – a tall man with a lean build, bright orange eyes, and long, dark green hair – raised up a small gong-like instrument. With his finger, he set the gong to ringing once, the sound clean and clear, and it echoed throughout the clearing. The men who'd fed and bathed him formed a circle around Fayt with the only opening being by the stone slab. They touched him on the shoulders and upper back yet again, keeping the contact as brief as they possibly could, and gestured towards the slab. One of them even nodded at him, as if to reassure him he'd be okay, and tugged on him, steering him towards the one place he didn't want to go.

At the same time they escorted him to the slab of stone, Fayt glanced around to see what the other young men were doing. He couldn't see much since they were surrounded as well, but he did notice the flows of golds and pinks entering the clearing. The flows filled the circle, swirling about the bases of the slabs and lapping at the sides like a mist, and his friendly captors maneuvered him onto the slab, helping him to lay flat on his back and gazing at the sky. They then walked away, leaving him there, unbound, and Fayt's heart started to hammer in his chest. His breathing quickened, and his skin continued to tingle.

The gong rang out for a second time, and Fayt closed his eyes to prevent his panic from taking over his senses. He drew in a deep breath to calm his nerves because he knew from experience that panicking could very well get him or someone else killed. Aside from the one Eldarian-like man, no one had really tried to harm him since his arrival and initial capture. He really possessed no clue as to what was going to happen to him, which only served to frighten him further and kick his fighting instincts into action, and he continued to draw in deep breath after deep breath.

'No!' he screamed at himself. 'No! I won't let my fear rule me. I will get out of this somehow. I just can't panic.'

He heard the shuffling of feet coming towards him, and Fayt opened his eyes. Clamping down on his fear, he willed himself to remain calm, to exude calm, and to wait until the right moment for escape presented itself. He was no weakling. He could fight his way out, if he needed. He refused to look around at the others. The last thing he wanted his memories to be of, for he was certain he'd die fighting, were the young men on the same stone slabs as he, blood pouring from their mouths as they lay dying. A young man of the same Eldarian-like nature stopped next to where Fayt lay, and he glanced at the one he believed would try to kill him.

Like Fayt, the young man wore no clothing, only the gold chain circlet around his forehead. A stone as black as onyx rested in the center of his forehead, and it matched the colour of his hair. Aquamarine-hued eyes stared at him, and he sat next to Fayt.

By appearances alone, like the others, the man next to stood around a foot or so taller than Fayt, and the Eldarian-like man possessed a lithe, slender, yet muscular form. Other than his ears and the unusual shade of his eyes, the man next to him resembled that of another human man. There was very little to the naked eye to indicate the one next to him wasn't completely human. The comparison did very little to ease Fayt's anxiety or his battle instincts, but it was there all the same.

The man reached out to him, his fingers gliding along Fayt's cheek and down his jaw, and interrupting his concentration. It was a gentle touch, one a man might give to his lover or wife, and Fayt inhaled a sharp breath, both in surprise and delight. The touch wasn't something he'd come to expect, and he couldn't deny it felt nice. Those fingers, warm and calloused yet emanating strength and dexterity, trailed from his jaw to his throat, caressing the barely visible scars along his chin and chest. They were reminders of the battles he'd fought, and he shivered in the cool, early morning air. Why he felt it was morning, Fayt couldn't say. The hour felt _early_ as opposed to late.

His captor (or was it newfound companion? The tingling of his skin caused his mind to scatter in a thousand different thoughts so he couldn't be one-hundred percent certain of anything) tilted his head the moment the shiver stole across him, and he moved closer until he hovered over Fayt. His eyes, those intense, aquamarine-coloured eyes, remained locked with Fayt's, and they gleamed with intent. Whatever he wanted from Fayt, he knew he would get it, and he believed he would get it without a fight. The gleam in his eyes told Fayt as much. A light smirk touched the other man's features as he continued to hover over Fayt and touch him with his free hand. Confused by the other man's actions and lack of a weapon, Fayt tilted his head, wondering how come the other was assured of his victory when the battle hadn't even begun.

With their gazes locked with one another's, Fayt failed to notice the position the other man took until he felt his legs being nudged apart. Heat started to radiate between them, causing a familiar ache in his body. It'd been a long time since he'd been physically intimate with another person. He'd chosen isolation after the final battle, living as far away from any kind of village or city so, when the ache for the contact made itself known, Fayt knew _how_ he'd been defeated. This time, he couldn't stop his heart from pounding or his breath from quickening. Blood rushed to every part of his body, setting him on fire. Unable to resist, Fayt moved his hands so they were touching the one above him, fingers deftly finding a battle scar or two. Feathery soft touches to his sides and to his abdomen added fuel to the fire burning within him, and Fayt arched his back for closer contact, a whimper of need escaping him in the process. Somewhere in the background, sounding as if it were in the distance, the gong rang out its clear, almost crystalline sound. Three times, the gong was struck, and the air reverberated with its music throughout the clearing. The flows from earlier rose to where he and his companion lay, washing over them, bathing them, and rising high into the sky until Fayt could no longer see them. The ringing of the gong continued to echo across the clearing and perhaps into the forest.

While the gong sounded out, the feathery touches to his side turned into set of temporary stings, much like a bee sting, only five to each side and at the same time as the other. The touch to his abdomen – more specifically, his belly button – continued to feel feathery soft, but it felt as if something were wriggling its way inside of him, and Fayt squirmed with the conflicting sensations. At the same time, the other man enveloped him with his body, one arm wrapped in a tight hug around Fayt. His engorged manhood rested snug against Fayt's hole as two deft, slickened fingers slid into him, preparing the way for something much larger. Warm flesh wrapped around Fayt's own aching erection, and he moaned as his cock was completely sheathed in a wall of firm and unyielding muscle.

By the time the echoes of the gong faded away, both of the other man's arms were around Fayt, and his face buried in Fayt's neck. Long, obviously organic tendrils poked into his sides with an unseen one tickling his insides through his belly button. A rod of rock hard flesh rested within his body as his rested within the other man, and a surge of ecstasy rode through Fayt as they lay there, entwined in each other's embrace, neither of them moving.

It felt more than nice to be held in another person's arms – it felt divine, like he'd grown wings and started to fly through the clouds. It felt like Christmas morning, knowing there'd be a pile of presents with his name on each and every one under the tree and both of his parents home to celebrate the holiday with him. It felt like a warm summer day with nothing to do but lay on a beach somewhere and enjoy the weather. Every positive experience Fayt could think of, the physical contact and pleasure he received from the other man felt exactly like it and twice as better. He whimpered and moaned as they lay there, clinging to the other and desiring more, aching for it like it would be the last time he'd ever enjoy the company of another ever again. Sweat soon covered their bodies, but Fayt didn't care. As long as they could stay as they were, he knew he would be happy. They were alone in the universe, and contentment filled him. Early morning turned into mid-morning and mid-morning into the early noon hours. Fayt felt the sun shining into the clearing, warming the air with almost a tropical heat, and it intensified the emotions coursing through him. His head and mind spun in circles, and he felt off balance. He was glad for the taut, muscular chest pressed against his, and for the musky scent of the other man.

Eventually, the sun sank into the horizon, turning day into evening, and evening into night. When the wave of emotions and pleasure wore away, it was again in the early morning hours, and the cool air caressed still heated and sensitized flesh. His partner, for what else were they in those long hours but partners, untangled himself from Fayt and stepped away. His sides burned from where the fleshy tendrils had pierced his skin and his stomach felt like doing flips, but Fayt felt sated nonetheless. The sweat covering his body chilled him, and his stomach rumbled in protest, but Fayt found that, for the moment, he didn't care. His body needed rest after such a long excursion, and rest it would do. Weariness settled in, and he curled onto his side, allowing sleep to overtake him . . .

* * *

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